nauseated There is a sort of self-defining satisfaction in spewing sorrow and regurgitating the sense of loss. It justifies the self-righteousness of cynicism and feeds our self-worth. A hunger as rich as spilled ink, starving for acclaim of its blackness. Reincarnating our regrets and pouring them through the filter of our memory, while denying their original truth. Ashamed... skewing... rekindling for approval and yet cowering under the magnitude of hurt.
The psyche knows only the familiar and can re-know only the familiar. Our time amounts to a singular experience, shapeshifting through the years, ultimately the same within the contained system that is our self.
I wonder why circles are so definitive of life. It must mean something, if I could only grasp it. Yet it would not be a circle if it were not rolling, evading, unstoppable and unpredictable, a chameleon forging the signature of a boomerang.
"To sleep perchance to dream." To dream perchance to wish...
0 comments:
Post a Comment